Tuesday, July 10, 2007

OPEN MIC NITE IN HELL

Grank stared at the microphone that was staring back at him, and as his eyes adjusted t the dark, he could see a room full of hooded, shaved, tattooed and love starved waifs and curbside geniuses looking at him, clutching notebooks of assorted thicknesses, scraps of paper, waiting their turn on stage, waiting to see what he had. Grank tugged at his collar, dropped his neatly typed sheets, and began to rant. Horrible feedback washed up to the stage from the coffee bar. Grank made the most of the vibe he’d been given.

“SWEEET NUTZOID NAZI CURLING IRONMAKES MY BLOOD GROWN WAN AND PALEMEANING BUSH AND CHENEY UP TO NO GOODNESS GRACES,LOOK HOW UGLY YOUR FACE IS,ALL WE HAVE IS EACH OTHERAND THAT’S LONELY SIDE OF SLABBING TRUTHTHAT GETS MY HANDS TITHER AND WITHER AND GRITHERIN GRITS AND CROCERIES, ALL I SAY IS UP THE SYSTEMAND FIGHT THE POWERDON’T BE SO SOURYEAH, MY BALLS ARE SOUR,JUST GIMMEE SOME TRUTHOR ELSE LEAVE ME BEWHAT IT ISWITH MY RAZR MESSAGING UNIT,ALL RIGHT??”